UC-NRLF 


55    fl5D 


IN    THE    SKY    GARDEN 

POSTHUMOUS   POEMS   OF 

STEPHEN  MOYLAN  BIRD 

EDITED    BY    CHARLES    WHARTON    STORK 


EX    LIBRIS 

THE    UNIVERSITY 

OF    CALIFORNIA 


FROM  THE  FUND 
ESTABLISHED  AT  YALE 

IN  1927  BY 
WILLIAM  H.  CROCKER 

OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1882 

SHEFFIELD  SCIENTIFIC  SCHOOL 

YALE  UNIVERSITY 


36/ff 


IN   THE  SKY  GARDEN 


IN  THE  SKY  GARDEN 


POSTHUMOUS   POEMS   OF 
STEPHEN   MOYLAN   BIRD 

PREFACE  BY 
FRANCIS   BARTON  GUMMERE 


SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED  WITH  A 
BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  BY 
CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

LONDON    •    HUMPHREY    MILFORD    •    OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

MDCCCCXXII 


COPYRIGHT    1922  BY 
YALE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS 


To  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Company  the  Editor  and  the  Publishers  of  this 
volume  wish  to  make  grateful  acknowledgment  for  permission  to  reprint 
the  poem  entitled  Stephen  Moylan  Bird,  which  appeared  in  The  En 
chanted  Years,  a  volume  commemorative  of  the  hundredth  year  of  the 
University  of  Virginia.  Of  the  other  poems  several  have  appeared  in 
Voices  and  about  fifteen  in  Contemporary  Verse. 


PREFACE 

THE  poems  of  Stephen  Moylan  Bird  depend  upon  no  interests 
or  fashions  of  the  present  day,  and  have  something  of  that 
quality  which  makes  date  and  place  irrelevant.  His  vein  had  not 
been  worked  out  to  the  perfection  of  lyric  such  as  is  found  in 
Shelley  and  in  Keats ;  but  he  had  gone  far  beyond  mere  promise, 
and  these  brave  relics  of  a  poet  in  the  making  deserve  to  be 
gathered  into  a  volume.  So  preserved,  his  verses  will  be  read  and 
valued,  I  think,  when  most  of  the  poetry  that  now  makes  loud 
appeal  is  forgotten  along  with  the  excitements  or  the  eccentricities 
which  called  it  forth. 

FRANCIS    B.   GUMMERE. 

Haverford,  Pennsylvania. 


646507 


THE  LIFE  OF 

STEPHEN   MOYLAN   BIRD 

1897-1919 

N.  B.  This  sketch  appeared  in  abbreviated  form  in  the  New  York 
Nation  and  is  here  reproduced  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  proprietors. 

iT  is  in  one  way  unfortunate  that  a  poet  should  have  a  "romantic" 
history;  for  though  the  idle  will  be  attracted  to  his  memory  by 
curiosity,  the  judicial  may  incline  to  be  prejudiced  against  his 
work.  The  critic,  in  his  desire  to  escape  the  bias  of  popular  senti 
ment,  is  apt  to  become  abnormally  restrained  and  cautious  in  his 
pronouncements.  With  regard  to  Stephen  Moylan  Bird,  let  me 
say  that  I  had  the  fullest  conviction  of  his  remarkable  genius 
before  I  heard  of  his  death  or  had  any  further  knowledge  of  him 
than  came  from  his  poems  and  very  reserved  correspondence. 
On  this  evidence  I  was  led  to  believe  that  Bird  was  the  most 
promising  American  poet  in  the  realm  of  ideal  beauty  since  the 
time  of  Poe. 

But  though  Moylan  Bird  was  a  deep  admirer  of  Poe,  his  own 
character  and  style  were  much  nearer  to  those  of  Keats.  I  fully 
realize  the  danger  of  this  comparison,  which  is  made  rather  under 
the  compulsion  of  the  truth  as  it  appears  to  me  than  gratuitously 
for  effect.  American  Wordsworths  and  Shelleys  have  been  so  fre 
quently  proclaimed  that  the  well-wisher  of  a  new  aspirant  would 
prefer,  if  possible,  not  to  weight  him  with  a  similar  title.  Yet  here 

5 


is  a  poet,  dead  at  twenty-one,  to  whom  in  a  quite  new  and  personal 
way  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,  who  lives  in  and  makes 
real  to  us  a  world  of  glowing  enchantment.  Before  deprecating 
the  idea  of  "an  American  Keats,"  would  it  not  be  well  to  consider 
what  ridicule  would  have  been  heaped  upon  him  who  a  hundred 
years  ago  should  have  asserted  that  the  original  Keats  at  twenty- 
one,  was  what  we  now  mean  by  "a  Keats"?  No  poetry  seems  to 
win  its  way  more  slowly  than  does  that  which  is  of,  perhaps,  the 
highest  type,  viz.,  poetry  of  ideal  beauty.  It  was  twenty-five  years 
before  the  poems  of  Keats  were  reprinted  or  gathered  into  a 
collected  edition. 

Stephen  Moylan  Bird  was  born  in  Galveston,  Texas,  on  Octo 
ber  12,  1897.  On  both  sides  he  came  of  distinguished  ancestry, 
chiefly  Southern.  He  was  directly  descended  from  General  Stephen 
Moylan  of  Revolutionary  fame,  and  the  brother  of  his  great 
grandfather  was  Robert  Montgomery  Bird,  the  playwright,  whose 
"Gladiator"  held  the  stage  up  to  the  last  generation.  The  Birds 
were  Virginians,  the  Moylans  Pennsylvanians  of  Irish  stock,  and 
on  his  mother's  side  the  poet  inherited  Welsh  blood.  Theorists  of 
race  temperament  may  attribute  to  Celtic  ancestry  the  poet's  sense 
of  imagination  and  verbal  melody.  The  father  was  a  church 
organist.  Moylan  had  an  older  sister,  Alice,  married  before  his 
death,  and  a  younger  brother,  Robert  Lee. 

Previous  to  the  war  Moylan  Bird  lived  almost  his  whole  life  in 
Galveston.  From  the  first  he  showed  himself  extremely  sensitive 
and  high-spirited,  with  a  passionate  love  of  wild  nature  and 
animals.  This  was  carried  to  an  extent  which  bordered  on  senti 
mental  extravagance.  For  instance,  he  used  to  pick  up  any  flower 
that  he  found  lying  on  the  street  and,  bringing  it  home,  put  it  on 
a  special  tray  kept  for  the  purpose.  Shy  of  outsiders,  he  was 

6 


devoted  to  his  mother,  sister,  and  brother,  and  was  taught  at  home 
for  several  years.  Uncle  Remus,  Alice  in  Wonderland,  and 
Gulliver  were  his  earliest  favorites  among  books. 

When  he  went  to  school,  he  at  once  developed  into  a  brilliant 
student,  finishing  his  high  school  course  when  barely  sixteen, 
at  least  two  years  ahead  of  the  average.  His  favorite  studies  were 
English  and  natural  history.  He  became  a  tremendous  reader, 
visiting  the  library  at  every  odd  moment.  His  favorite  authors 
were  Kipling,  Ernest  Thompson  Seton,  William  J.  Long,  and 
William  Beebe.  His  great  ambition  was  to  be  a  naturalist  and 
go  to  South  America.  Of  the  poets  he  was  fondest  of  Vergil  (in 
Latin)  and  Poe.  He  did  not  in  general  care  for  the  Victorians  or 
the  New  England  poets,  but  admired  Longfellow's  "Skeleton  in 
Armor"  and  Browning's  "Last  Ride  Together."  It  is  not  hard  to 
divine  in  him  the  temper  of  adventurous  rather  than  sentimental 
romance. 

In  many  respects  he  was  as  healthy  and  normal  as  possible. 
He  passed  duly  through  the  period  of  craze  for  trains  and  boats 
and  emerged  into  baseball.  Always  of  splendid  physique,  he 
became  devoted  to  swimming  and  bicycling,  anything  that  would 
get  him  out  into  elemental  nature.  His  sister  says  of  him  that 
he  was  always  an  "unreconstructed  Southerner,"  choosing  Lee 
and  Stonewall  Jackson  for  his  heroes,  and  never  easily  granting 
any  virtue  to  the  "Yankees."  Though  he  memorized  much  of 
"Paradise  Lost,"  he  disliked  Milton  for  his  Puritanism.  His 
favorite  novelist  was  Mary  Johnston,  whose  Lewis  Rand  he  read 
many  times.  He  was  absolutely  fearless  and  very  hot-tempered, 
especially  against  any  kind  of  cruelty.  As  he  grew  older,  he  came 
to  loathe  anything  ugly,  dirty,  or  base,  whether  in  externals  or 
in  character,  and  it  was  his  misfortune  that  his  vivid  and  ex- 

7 


pressive  features  could  never  conceal  his  thoughts.  He  would  not 
go  to  church,  preferring  to  worship  in  the  larger  temple  of  nature. 

Being  as  he  was,  it  is  not  surprising  that  Bird  made  no  friends 
at  school.  With  his  aristocratic  temper  he  was  quickly  antagonized 
by  the  sort  of  boys  he  was  thrown  with  in  a  large,  new  com 
mercial  city  such  as  Galveston.  When  his  mother  asked  why  he 
held  aloof  from  the  others,  he  answered,  "Mother,  if  you  knew 
what  those  boys  were  saying,  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  associate 
with  them."  To  make  up  for  this  Moylan  Bird  withdrew  into  his 
home  whenever  possible,  idolizing  his  mother  and  making  his 
brother  his  only  comrade  in  boyish  amusements.  His  mind  de 
veloped  rapidly  into  wider  interests,  he  showed  a  surprising  power 
of  memory,  and  became  a  very  fluent  and  spirited  talker.  With 
all  his  sensitiveness,  his  main  characteristics  were  his  winning 
gentleness  and  humor. 

It  was  after  his  graduation  from  school  that  the  real  tragedy 
of  Moylan  Bird's  life  began.  Shut  out  by  lack  of  money  from 
his  ambition  of  becoming  a  naturalist,  he  first  went  into  railroad 
ing.  Although  he  hated  this  work,  his  quickness  and  accuracy 
made  him  an  excellent  employee;  indeed,  it  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  succeeded  in  all  he  undertook.  A  short  time  later  he 
shifted  into  the  cotton  business  and  became  one  of  the  best  cotton 
clerks  on  the  exchange,  but  his  real  self  remained  nearly  as 
unsatisfied  as  before.  It  was  from  this  time  that  he  began  in  odd 
moments  to  write  down  short  lyrics  as  they  occurred  to  him  in 
intervals  of  leisure.  He  never  apparently  took  himself  seriously 
as  a  poet,  never  felt  himself  far  enough  along  to  think  of  a 
literary  career;  he  simply  wrote  because  he  could  not  help  it, 
wrote  on  the  backs  of  envelopes  or  street-car  transfers. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1917-18  that  Moylan  Bird  first  came 

8 


into  touch  with  me  in  my  capacity  of  editor  of  Contemporary 
Verse.  I  well  remember  pausing  as  I  was  about  to  return  his 
contribution  with  the  usual  printed  slip.  Immature  as  this  effusion 
was,  there  was  in  it  a  quality  of  magic  that  arrested  me.  The 
writer  gave  a  glimpse  into  a  world  of  remote  beauty,  which  he 
himself  knew  only  imperfectly  as  yet,  but  which  was  far  different 
from  the  usual  realm  of  nowhere  inhabited  by  the  restless  souls 
of  youthful  versifiers.  I  wrote  a  word  of  encouragement.  Three 
or  four  more  sets  of  manuscripts  came  with  growing  definiteness 
and  artistry  of  touch.  Then  all  at  once,  like  a  sunburst,  came 
half  a  dozen  pieces  which  made  me  jump  from  my  chair  with  a 
shout.  They  seemed  to  me,  and  still  seem,  among  the  loveliest 
lyrics  of  their  kind  ever  written  in  America.  With  the  first  lines 
I  was  spellbound  by  the  imaginative  sweep  of  the  emotion  and 
the  fresh  music  of  the  plastic  rhythm.  Here  was  a  boy  who  had 
not  only  created  a  world  of  his  own  but  could  bear  his  reader 
along  with  him  surely  and  steadily  "on  the  viewless  wings  of 
Poesy."  Let  those  who  will  judge  by  a  stanza  whether  this 
enthusiasm  was  unjustified. 

My  soul-harp  never  thrills  to  peaceful  tunes; 
In  Nature's  wildness  my  heart  finds  its  home, 
When  sporting,  playmate  to  the  winds  and  waves, 
O'er  the  wild  Orkneys'  battlefields  of  foam. 

It  was  to  me  nothing  less  than  a  miracle,  a  new  vision  of  loveli 
ness  evoked  by  eight  or  a  dozen  typewritten  lines. 

Moylan  Bird's  brother  writes  that  my  first  acceptance  was  a 
tremendous  encouragement.  At  all  events,  more  equally  beautiful 
poems  were  rapidly  forthcoming,  and  during  the  spring  I  placed 
eleven  on  our  files.  The  first  three  were  published  in  June  with 

9 


an  editorial  note  calling  special  attention  to  the  new  author.  Both 
critics  and  readers  largely  confirmed  the  opinion  of  the  editor. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  personal  history  of  the  author.  His 
indignation  roused  by  stories  of  German  atrocities,  the  young 
poet,  though  under  the  conscription  limit,  had  volunteered  for  the 
navy  before  any  of  his  poems  were  published.  He  wrote  me  that 
he  hoped  to  escape  from  his  present  stifling  existence  into  a  wider 
world ;  he  longed  especially  to  get  out  upon  the  ocean  he  had  so 
vividly  pictured  to  himself.  But  his  expectations  were  completely 
disappointed.  During  the  summer  of  1918  he  served  as  a  recruit 
by  the  Great  Lakes  and  on  Narragansett  Bay.  He  found  the  life 
even  rougher  and  more  degrading  to  his  spirit  than  his  office  work 
had  been.  Not  a  ray  of  beauty  or  kindliness  redeemed  the  eternal 
drudgery  of  mess  and  drill.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  this 
boyish  idealist  was  unable  to  make  any  contact  with  the  average 
American  "rookie,"  was  doubtless  unable  to  sense  the  better 
motives  that  lay  behind  the  immediate  duty  of  learning  how  to 
kill.  Brought  up  on  tales  of  heroism,  he  must  have  writhed  under 
the  feeling  that  dying  for  one's  country  had  now  become  a  mere 
affair  of  business  and  mechanics.  The  true  poet  is  exceptional,  and 
modern  war  knows  no  exceptions.  Furthermore,  living  at  home, 
Bird  had  been  able  largely  to  shun  the  rough-and-tumble  of  life 
which  most  of  us  learn  gradually  to  meet  and  face.  He  expected 
from  life  what  life  could  never  give  him,  but  the  disillusionment 
for  him  must  have  been  more  brutally  sudden  than  we  others 
can  well  realize. 

I  received  from  him  only  a  few  brief  letters  during  the  summer 
and  a  few  scraps  of  verse  which  he  had  not  had  time  to  get  into 
good  shape.  He  quoted  to  his  sister  one  of  my  replies  in  which 
I  urged  him  not  to  let  the  soldier  kill  the  poet.  The  words  had 

10 


for  him  a  deeper  meaning  than  I  could  have  divined.  About  the 
same  time  his  mother  was  taken  desperately  ill  and  he  wrote  her : 
"If  anything  happens  to  you,  mother,  I'll  kill  myself."  His  sister 
has  told  me  that  he  often  used  to  argue  with  her  in  defence  of 
suicide,  saying  that  a  man  had  the  right  to  do  what  he  liked 
with  his  own  life.  She  spoke  of  duty  to  one's  friends  and  family, 
but  he  was  unconvinced. 

In  October  Moylan  Bird  received  an  appointment  as  cadet  at 
West  Point.  He  had  done  well  in  the  navy  and  would  have  won 
his  ensign's  commission,  but  he  had  the  feeling  that  in  a  school  for 
officers  he  would  be  associated  with  gentlemen,  with  those  of  his 
own  instincts  and  susceptibilities.  For  this  reason,  though  his 
family  urged  him  not  to  accept,  he  finally  decided  to  do  so.  Of 
his  life  at  West  Point  little  is  known  and  probably  not  much  will 
ever  be  revealed.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  terribly  disappointed 
in  his  hope  of  getting  the  kind  of  better  education  he  wanted.  The 
instruction  in  literature  seemed  infantile.  Then  the  life  in  general 
seemed  even  worse  to  him  than  that  in  the  navy.  No  doubt  when 
the  armistice  was  signed  the  idea  of  war  lost  all  meaning.  He 
stayed  on  because  he  was  determined  to  stick  it  out,  to  keep  up  his 
record  of  never  failing  in  anything  he  undertook. 

He  wrote  little  of  what  was  going  on  within  him  in  the  last 
weeks  of  the  year.  It  has  come  to  light,  however,  that  he  had  two 
roommates  who  were  determined,  according  to  their  ideas,  to 
"make  a  man  of  him."  As  he  refused  to  accept  their  ideas  as  to 
manhood,  they  changed  their  tactics  and  told  him  they  would 
"give  him  hell."  How  well  they  kept  their  word  we  can  only  guess 
by  the  sequel.  He  first  wrote  his  mother  that  he  doubted  whether 
he  should  be  able  to  stay  on.  Then  in  a  final  letter  he  asked  for 
money  so  that  he  might  return  home  at  once.  As  his  mother  had  sat 

11 


down  immediately  en  receipt  of  this  to  send  the  money,  a  telegram 
was  brought  her  announcing  that  her  son  had  been  found  shot 
in  his  room  on  the  first  day  of  the  new  year.  He  died  before  his 
family  could  reach  him.  A  mystery  attaches  to  the  end  in  that  the 
boy  had  received  his  honorable  discharge  from  the  Academy  just 
before  the  fatality  occurred. 

Still,   that   Moylan    Bird   took   his   own    life    seems    probable, 
especially  in  view  of  such  a  fragment  as  the  following : 

THE  VOICE 

Like  a  cool  vapor  falling 
The  voice  of  Death  is  calling; 
"In  my  dim  land  is  Peace, 
By  Lethe-languid  fountains 
In  my  mist-shrouded  mountains 
All  cares  and  clamors  cease." 

There  is  to  me  in  these  lines  the  quiet  joy  of  a  soul  escaping  from 
the  bonds  of  an  unnatural  existence  to  its  homeland  of  visionary 
beauty.  The  poet's  only  true  happiness  lay  in  the  world  of  his 
imagination,  a  world  completely  denied  him  both  by  his  regime 
of  life  and  his  associates.  He  was  terribly  homesick  and  could 
not  get  leave  to  return  for  Christmas.  His  deeply  affectionate, 
hypersensitive  spirit  had  been  tortured  deliberately  for  many 
weeks,  at  a  time  when  both  his  body  and  mind  were  under  con 
tinual  strain.  The  strict  moralist  may  condemn,  but  few  of  us 
surely  can  deny  a  measure  of  understanding  sympathy  to  the 
despair  that  drove  this  beauty-worshipping  boy  to  his  final 
resolution. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  brief  article  to  do  other  than  present 

12 


and  interpret  the  course  of  Moylan  Bird's  career.  Those  who 
wish  to  use  it  as  evidence  against  the  evils  of  military  life  are 
welcome  to  do  so.  Cases  of  suicide  under  such  conditions  have 
been  by  no  means  rare.  They  are  part  of  the  cost  of  war,  it  is  said. 
This,  however,  is  not  the  place  to  deal  with  arguments  or  generali 
ties.  Our  concern  is  now  not  with  the  poet's  past  but  with  his 
possible  future  fame. 

Of  the  fifty  or  so  of  Moylan  Bird's  poems  that  give  him  at 
his  best  none  is  over  thirty  lines.  Almost  all  are  imaginative  lyrics 
of  wild  nature:  the  mountains,  the  woods,  and  especially  the 
sea.  The  individual  note  of  these  lyrics  is  the  passionate  ideality 
of  their  feeling  and  the  golden,  dawnlike  quality  of  their  atmos 
phere.  Classic  allusion  is  as  felicitous  as  in  one  of  the  masters. 
Though  following  conventional  lines,  the  imagery  and  the  verbal 
music  are  entirely  new  and  vital ;  one  forgets  all  possible  proto 
types,  as  when  reading  such  of  Keat's  sonnets  as  "To  one  who 
has  been  long  in  city  pent"  and  "As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy 
fields."  To  me  there  is  something  quite  as  original  and  beautiful 
in  Moylan  Bird's  "May." 

The  Pan-thrilled  saplings  swayed  in  sportive  bliss, 
Longing  to  change  their  roots  to  flying  feet, 
And,  where  the  buds  were  pouting  for  Pans  kiss, 
The  high  lark  sprinkled  music,  dewy  sweet. 

I  wandered  down  a  golden  lane  of  light, 
And  found  a  dell,  unsoiled  by  man,  untrod, 
And,  with   the  daffodil  for  acolyte, 
I  bared  my  soul  to  all  the  woods,  and  God. 

The  impatient  joy  of  the  first  stanza  and  the  deep  reverence 
of  the  second  are  alike  rendered  with  spontaneous  melody  and 

13 


fancy.  Unforced  as  is  the  style,  almost  every  touch  is  vividly 
appropriate.  Faultless  the  lines  are  not,  but  they  have  an  uncon 
scious  ease  and  abandon  more  winsome  than  any  mere  correctness. 
We  have  noticed  passages  about  the  sea  and  the  woods.  Let  the 
following  stand  as  an  interpretation  of  the  mountains,  which, 
be  it  remembered,  the  poet  had  seen  only  with  the  inward  eye  : 

THE  SILENT   RANGES 

Give  me  the  hills,  that  echo  silence  back. 

Save  the  harp-haunted  pines'  wild  minstrelsy. 

And  white  peaks,  lifting  rapt  Madonna  gaze 
To  where  God's  cloud-sheep  roam  the  azure  lea. 

Give  me  the  Lethe  of  the  harebell's  wine, 
And  in  the  fleece  of  silence  folded  deep, 

Let  half-heard  echoes  of  an  Oread's  song 
Breathe  on  the  drowsy  lyre  of  my  sleep. 

Naturally  the  emotional  field  of  a  boy  of  twenty  is  not  large. 
Moylan  Bird  was  in  love  with  love  but  never  with  any  particular 
"rare  and  radiant  maiden."  Philosophy  and  abstractions  in  gen 
eral  he  meddled  not  with.  He  has  a  couple  of  penetrative  satiric 
ventures.  The  chosen  familiars  of  his  acquaintance  are  the  spirits 
of  nature.  Pan,  the  nymphs,  and  the  personified  hours  and  sea 
sons  are  for  him  the  "real  people."  Most  of  his  imagination  is 
personal,  but  there  is  a  promising  touch  of  drama  in  "The  Witch." 

Because  her  dark  eyes  loved  the  shades 
That  rimmed  the  gold  of  every  dell, 
When  listening  to  the  talking  trees 
They  said  that  she  communed  with  Hell. 


Two  successful  realistic  poems  emerge  from  a  group  in  which 
for  the  most  part  he  is  ill  at  ease.  One  is  to  a  Red  Cross  nurse; 
the  other,  "A  Song  of  American  Industry,"  has  a  splendidly  virile 
ring.  Following  is  the  third  stanza: 

What  of  the  gun-works'  flame-shot  gloom? 
Where  dim  in  the  throbbing,  heated  room 
The  cannon  are  born  to  hurl  their  shell 
Into  the  teeth  of  the  hosts  of  Hell, 
And  roar  from  their  iron  throats  the  lay ; 
"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday/" 

This  is  of  course  crude  and  hasty,  but  it  indicates  clear  possibili 
ties  along  modernistic  lines. 

The  poem  which  Bird  regarded  as  his  masterpiece  and  which 
has  been  most  admired  and  reprinted  is  entitled  "What  if  the 
lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream*?"  This  is  remarkable  for  fine  single 
lines  and  command  of  blank-verse  cadence  as  well  as  for  sus 
tained  imagination.  I  suggested  the  omission  or  strengthening  of 
a  few  phrases,  but  the  poet  was  very  strict  in  never  using  an 
adjective  that  was  not  his  own.  This  effort  shows  a  very  unusual 
mentality  in  an  idealist  of  twenty.  It  opens  as  follows : 

What  if  the  lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream, 

From  which  we  waked,  clutching  the  primal  bough, 

Seeing  familiar  thunder-piercing  crags, 

Vast  dripping  woods,  and  saurian-bellowed  swamps, 

That  wearied  the  new  heavens  with  their  noise, 

Wild  seas,  that  maddened,  foaming,  ever  gnawed 

At  fog-wrapped  cliffs,  and  roaring  in  defeat, 

Ran  to  eye-wearying  distance,  without  shore — 

15 


All  things  familiar;  but  our  dull  ape  minds 
Troubled  with  visions  vague;  the  hungry  roar 
Of  the  great  sabred  tiger  far  below 
Seeming  in  our  wild  dream  the  thunderous  sound 
Of  hurtling  heated  monsters,  made  of  steel. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  in  a  city  without  original  works  of 
art  Bird  should  have  been  deeply  impressed  by  the  congenial 
spirit  of  Maxfield  Parrish,  which  he  of  course  divined  only  from 
reproductions.  A  lyric  shows  the  poet's  love  of  chivalry  and  his 
gift  of  losing  himself  in  a  remote  world  of  beauty.  Mr. 
Parrish,  to  whom  I  sent  the  poem  with  a  brief  sketch  of  the 
author's  life,  wrote  characteristically :  "Young  Bird's  history  is 
the  saddest  thing  I  ever  heard.  His  tribute  to  my  work  is  well- 
nigh  overwhelming;  goodness  knows,  it  must  have  been  the 
thoughts  that  he  put  into  it." 

We  must  now  attempt  a  summary.  Did  Moylan  Bird  really 
write  anything  that  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die?  This 
is  obviously  not  a  question  that  his  biographer  may  attempt  to 
settle.  Enough  material  has  been  furnished  the  reader  to  enable 
him  to  decide  for  himself.  I  believe  of  course  that  most  sym 
pathetic  lovers  of  poetry  will  incline  to  give  a  decided  affirmative, 
even  when  they  leave  out  of  account  the  tragic  circumstances  of 
the  author's  life. 

Mr.  Henry  Newbolt  in  his  recent,  very  stimulating  volume 
A  New  Study  of  English  Poetry  makes  the  point  that  a  true  poet 
is  great  even  in  his  imperfect  early  work.  Keats  was  a  great  poet 
in  Endymion,  and  Endymion  will  always  be  read,  even  though  it 
is  hardly  fuller  of  beauties  than  of  blemishes.  The  poet's  per 
sonality  is  unmistakably  there  almost  from  the  first.  Had  Keats 

16 


died  at  twenty-one  instead  of  at  twenty-six,  ought  we  not  to 
prize  "I  stood  tip-toe"  and  the  early  sonnets?  If  Bird  did  not 
write  "Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold,"  neither  did 
Keats  before  coming  of  age  write  any  passage  of  blank  verse 
with  such  finely  harmonized  imagination  as  "What  if  the  lapse 
of  ages  were  a  dream."  As  for  Chatterton,  who  holds  a  secure 
place  in  the  British  Parnassus,  I  cannot  see  that  he  has  left  any 
thing  worthy  to  be  compared  with  Moylan  Bird.  Hardly  more 
can  be  said  for  the  artistic  personality  of  Rupert  Brooke.  The 
youthful  American's  nature  seems  in  every  way  the  finer  and 
might  in  fortunate  surroundings  have  proved  the  manlier. 

I  never  saw  Moylan  Bird,  but  his  photograph,  which  faces  me 
as  I  write,  proves  to  me  that  he  was  all  those  who  knew  him 
best  have  told  me  of  him.  Brown,  slightly  curling  hair  is  brushed 
back  from  a  forehead  of  commanding  width  and  height.  The  dark 
eyes,  deep-set  below  level  brows,  have  the  wistful  candor  and 
genial  sympathy  of  the  true  Celt.  Celtic,  too,  are  the  lines  that 
diverge  from  the  prominent  nose  to  the  corner  of  the  mobile,  dis 
tressingly  sensitive  lips.  The  partial  weakness  of  the  mouth  is 
offset  by  the  squarish  resolute  chin.  It  is  an  unforgetable,  mes 
merizing  face,  a  face  that  is  somehow  terrible  to  study  because 
of  its  unlimited  susceptibility  to  feeling.  The  expression  is  that 
of  an  utterly  unworldly  lover  of  life,  and  it  is  that  of  one  who  will 
not  flinch  and  cannot  lie.  Withal  the  countenance  is  surprisingly 
mature, — nobody  would  take  it  for  that  of  a  man  under  twenty- 
five.  The  more  I  look  at  it,  the  more  I  feel  that  there  was  no  one 
in  this  generation  whom  I  should  have  cared  more  to  know. 

But  here  in  these  poems  is  a  sufficient  consolation  for  those  who 
were  not  privileged  to  meet  with  Moylan  Bird  in  the  flesh.  Their 
spirited  joy  in  all  the  loveliest  aspects  of  nature,  their  almost 

17 


supernatural  tenderness  and  purity  of  feeling,  make  them  unique 
as  all  beauty  is  unique.  We  should  not  underrate  the  pervasive 
force  of  tenderness  in  art,  a  quality  which,  according  to  a  great 
critic  of  painting,  ranked  Correggio  as  the  spiritual  equal  of  the 
titan  Michelangelo.  But  we  must  return  to  our  smaller  scale. 
Short  as  these  lyrics  are,  there  is  a  deep,  unaccountable  glow  in 
them  that  becomes  brighter  and  softer  the  more  one  feels  oneself 
into  them.  To  be  sure  such  poems  have  little  to  do  with  the  feel 
ings  and  literary  fashions  of  the  hour.  They  are  neither  Whit- 
manesque  nor  imagistic.  The  savant  who  maintains  that  a  poet  of 
today  should  not  deal  with  classic  mythology  will  reject  them 
utterly.  Are  we  therefore  to  brush  them  aside  like  so  many  useless 
butterflies?  This  is  not  the  answer  of  the  late  Professor  Francis 
B.  Gummere,  a  critic  second  to  none  of  this  generation  in  America. 
He  writes :  "The  poems  of  Stephen  Moylan  Bird  depend  upon  no 
interests  or  fashions  of  the  present  day,  and  have  something  of 
that  quality  which  makes  date  and  place  irrelevant." 

CHARLES   WHARTON   STORK. 


18 


IN  MEMORIAM  S.  M.  B. 


crowded  room  was  rank  with  smoke 
And  raw  with  fumes  of  drink. 
'The  air  was  harsh  with  curse  and  joke; 
How  could  you  else  than  shrink? 

Was  this,  then,  life?  Tou  could  not  know 
tfhat  evil  was  not  king, 
And  the  savage  law  of  blow  for  blow 
Was  not  the  only  thing. 

For  you  had  dwelt  in  youthful  dreams, 
Ethereal  regions  fair 

Of  starlight  meads  and  moonlight  streams 
Untouched  by  grief  and  care. 

Tou  loved  to  war  with  cleansing  seas, 
Tou  loved  all  kindly  mirth, 
Tou  people  with  sweet  phantasies 
Our  sordid  modern  earth. 

Tour  playtime  done,  you  gladly  strove 
¥0  act  a  true  man's  part, 
Tou  were  but  plunged  amid  the  drove 
Of  tramplers  in  the  mart. 


And  then  came  war.  Tou  volunteered, 
Aflame  for  nobler  strife. 
With  hero  soul,  no  foe  you  feared. 
" Ah!  here,"  you  said,  "is  life." 

'They  chained  your  spirit  in  the  grime 
Of  dreary  camp  routine, 
And  two  men  pulled  you  toward  the  slime 
Where  even  love  is  unclean. 

"We'll  make  a  man  of  you,"  they  cried, 
And  jeered  with  taunting  yell. 
"Tou  won't?  All  right  then,  damn  your  pride! 
We'll  make  your  life  a  hell." 

'They  kept  their  promise  well,  the  two; 
They  know,  and  God  knows,  how. 
'They  tortured,  poisoned,  murdered  you. 
May  God  forgive  them  now! 

For  weeks  and  months  with  rankling  art 
They  probed  you  to  the  quick. 
They  saw  you  writhe  at  each  new  smart 
Till  all  your  soul  was  sick. 

The  tiny  room  was  thick  with  smoke 
And  raw  with  fumes  of  drink. 
From  foulest  curse  and  filthiest  joke 
Tou  could  not  else  than  shrink. 


20 


Tour  strength,  your  hate  -were  for  the  foe. 
Half-mad  there  at  the  end, 
Tou  were  not  nerved  to  strike  a  blow 
And  kill  a  should-be  friend. 

'Then  suddenly  you  saw  the  lands 
Where  poet  souls  belong, 
Where  rules  a  Power  that  understands, 
Where  comes  no  taint  of  wrong. 

Tou  saw  your  spirit's  homeland  there, 

Still  lovely,  still  the  same. 

Tou,  all  too  gentle,  all  too  rare 

tfo  learn  life  as  it  came, 

Tou  could  no  longer  breathe  the  air 

Of  fetid  lust  and  shame. 

Tou  did  not  well.  But  you  were  not, 
As  we  are,  slowly  steeled 
tfo  bear  the  ills  our  fates  allot. 
Tou  broke,  you  could  not  yield. 


room  was  hell  and  life  was  hell, 
But  there  so  near  outside 

Was  your  own  world  where  moonbeams  dwell 
On  dream-fields  soft  and  wide. 

Tou  did  but  seek  your  own  once  more; 
Tou  fled  the  garish  light. 
Tou  raised  the  latch-pin,  swung  the  door, 
And  stepped  into  the  night. 

c.  w.  s. 

21 


CONTENTS 

In  the  Sky  Garden   .      .      .      .  ' .  26 

Maxfield  Parrish       .     <.      .      .      .     -      .      .      .      .      .      .  27 

What  if  the  Lapse  of  Ages  Were  a  Dream  *? 28 

Flights  of  Fancy       . 30 

The  Lark        ....-,.... 31 

God's  Garden      .      .      .      .     \ ,      .32 

Treasure . *      •  33 

The  Wind      .      .      .      *     ......      .      .      .      .  34 

Dream  Fields       .      .      .      ...      .      ...      .      .      .35 

Castle  Dream       .      .      . 36 

The  Moon  Girl   .      .      .      .      .      .      ...      ....  37 

Mist  o'  Dreams   .      . 38 

Harpalyce .            .      .      .      .      .  39 

The  Wood  Child 40 

The  Witch     ..............  41 

The  Bugle  Note  .      .      ...      .      .      .      .      .      .-.;.,.      .42 

Knight  Errant     .      .      .   • ' .      .      .  43 

Your  Hair .      . 44 

Chant  d'Amour    .      .      .      .      .      .      .,     .   .  i      ,      .      .      .  45 

Spring  Fantasy    .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      ,;   ., .  '.      .      .  46 

Pan's  Victory       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  47 

Pan's  Pipe      .      .      ....      . '    .      .      .      .      .      .      .  48 

Pipes  o'  Pan 49 

May 51 

Untrod 52 

23 


Spring  Dresses 53 

Dryad  Trees 54 

The  Questing  Bee 55 

The  Drowned  Grass  World 56 

The  Dying  Seasons 57 

Spume 5^ 

Sea  Foam 59 

On  a  View  from  My  Sister's  Cottage 60 

The  Cornish  Sea 6l 

Evening 62 

Wildness 63 

Snow-Blush 64 

Llewellyn 65 

The  Silent  Ranges 66 

Twilight 67 

Evening  Dreams 68 

Forget-Me-Not 69 

Knowledge  Lost,  Ignorance  Regained 70 

Beauty 71 

Life 72 

The  Recruit  Poet 73 

Pan    Dead? 74 

Skagerack 75 

Song  of  American  Industry 76 

The  Red  Cross  Nurse 78 

Dejection         79 

Requiescat 80 

Higher    Dawn 8l 

The  Voice  82 


IN   THE   SKY   GARDEN 


IN  THE  SKY   GARDEN 

IN  God's  own  garden  I  have  sung  alone, 
Moon-borne  up  to  the  angels'  castle  towers, 

And  fingering  a  wind-strung,  wild  guitar, 

Have  sung  my  soul  song  to  the  knee-deep  flowers. 

And  once  an  angel  tossed  a  rosy  kiss, 
Fluttering  to  me,  a  warm  butterfly — 

And  now,  though  I  may  walk  in  earthly  ways, 
My  heart  still  haunts  the  garden  in  the  sky. 


26 


MAXFIELD   PARRISH 

I  FELT  the  warm  glow  of  your  sun-kissed  hills 

Sweep  o'er  my  spirit  like  the  breath  of  Spring, 

And  all  the  old  perfume  of  chivalry 

Breathed  from  your  castles,  sky-flung  on  their  crags, 

Romance  and  glamour  of  the  olden  days 

Came  back  to  me.  Once  more  the  knights  rode  by 

To  watch  the  snowy  arms  of  maidens  wave 

From  towered,  mirror-moated  Camelot. 

Are  you  a  mortal4?  In  the  sky's  own  blue 

You  dipped  your  brush  to  paint  those  azure  depths, 

And  from  the  sunset's  crucible  you  dared 

To  steal  your  stately  argosies  of  clouds. 

Now  all  the  mortal  scales  fall  from  my  eyes 

And,  with  my  spirit's  sight,  I  seem  to  see 

An  angel,  with  strange  introspective  gaze, 

Who  stands  and  paints  the  vales  of  Paradise. 


WHAT  IF  THE  LAPSE  OF  AGES 
WERE  A  DREAM? 

\VHAT  if  the  lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream, 
From  which  we  waked,  clutching  the  primal  bough, 
Seeing  familiar  thunder-piercing  crags, 
Vast  dripping  woods,  and  saurian-bellowed  swamps, 
That  wearied  the  new  heavens  with  their  noise, 
Wild  seas,  that  maddened,  foaming,  ever  gnawed 
At  fog-wrapped  cliffs,  and  roaring  in  defeat, 
Ran  to  eye-wearying  distance,  without  shore — 
All  things  familiar;  but  our  dull  ape  minds 
Troubled  with  visions  vague;  the  hungry  roar 
Of  the  great  sabred  tiger  far  below 
Seeming  in  our  wild  dream  the  thund'rous  sound 
Of  hurtling  heated  monsters,  made  of  steel; 
And  the  God-scattered  worlds  that  gem  the  sky 
Seeming  in  vision  dread  the  blinding  glare 
Of  myriad  windows  in  huge  range  on  range 
Of  mountain  buildings,  teeming  o'er  with  life. 
The  wallowing  pleiosaurus'  gurgling  snort 
Changed  in  our  dream  to  rhythmic,  panting  roar 
Of  black  insensate  steel  amphibians, 
Daring  the  ocean's  dread  horizon  line; 
And  the  high  flap  of  pterodactyl  wings 
Making  us  whine  with  fear,  for,  in  our  dream, 
We  saw  vast  lifeless  birds,  that  roaring  flew, 
28 


Commanded  by  weak  puny  likenesses 
Of  our  ape-selves ;  we  cringed  with  terrors  vague 
Of  ungrasped  thoughts  we  could  not  understand- 
What  if  the  lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream*? 


29 


FLIGHTS  OF   FANCY 

MY  fancies  fly  like  butterflies, 
Aimless,  'mid  beauty  and  perfume; 
The  Ancient  Wood's  columnar  aisles; 
In  old  rose  gardens,  bright  with  bloom. 

Where  Neptune's  horses  toss  their  manes, 
Trampling  in  foam  upon  the  shore; 
Down  narrow  craggy  mountain  dells, 
Filled  with  the  cataract's  deep  roar. 

Nothing  they  know  of  boundaries; 
'Mid  wand'ring  planets,  fly  afar, 
And  burning  back  like  meteors, 
Bring  me  a  verse  from  every  star. 


THE  LARK 

HE  longs  for  God  to  hear  his  minstrelsy, 
Nor  rests  content  with  lower  earthly  things, 
And,  winding  up  the  silver  stairs  of  dawn, 
Before  the  towers  of  the  angels  sings. 

There  the  bright  golden  treasure  of  his  song, 
He  pours  like  minstrel  of  the  elden  time, 
And,  glad  with  his  reward  of  showered  smiles, 
Slants,  singing,  earthward  like  a  cadenced  rhyme. 


GOD'S    GARDEN 

I  SAW  His  goldenrod  for  maidens'  hair, 
Stretching  away  for  many  an  Ophir  mile; 
Saw  where  He  nurses  buds  for  maiden  mouths, 
Watching  each  pouting  petal  with  a  smile. 
I  saw  girl  eyes  in  dewed  forget-me-nots, 
Beside  their  unspoke  words'  clear  ripply  stream- 
But  then  the  Dawn  kissed  open  both  my  eyes, 
Dissolving  with  her  smile  my  garden  dream. 


TREASURE 

cannot  pluck  the  roses  of  the  dawn, 
Or  coin  the  silver  largess  of  the  moon, 
Or  hoard  the  gold  that  hides  in  lilies'  hearts, 
Making  the  drowsy  bee  in  riches  swoon. 

And  yet,  I  own  them  all,  for  to  my  soul 
My  wandering  fancy  Nature's  treasure  brings, 
To  store  them,  safely  guarded  in  my  heart; 
And  I  am  richer  far  than  Ophir's  kings. 


33 


THE  WIND 

FRESH  from  the  mountains'  changeless  snow 
You  kiss  the  heat  from  out  my  brow ; 
Your  heart-song  is  a  lyreful  trill 
Learned  from  the  romping,  icy  rill 
That  taught  you,  as  it  rushed  along, 
That  low,  heart-cooling  Druid  song. 
You  whisper  secrets  of  the  snows, 
Found  where  the  slender  harebell  blows; 
Through  the  ice  palaces  you  seek, 
Jeweling  the  eagle-echoed  peak; 
Thrill  to  his  tempest-scattered  screams, 
As  he  awakes  the  clouds'  blue  dreams. 
Tell  me  their  dreams!  You  wander  far, 
Through  ragged  cloud  veils,  see  each  star 
Smile  reassurance  through  the  wrack 
That  Dawn  comes  down  her  silver  track, 
To  make  Night  fold  her  sable  wings. 
The  Heav'n-aspiring  lark  high  sings, 
Among  your  unseen  airy  streams; 
You  romp  the  clouds  among  moonbeams, — 
So  you  must  know. — Tell  me  their  dreams! 


34 


DREAM   FIELDS 

MY  heart  goes  often  piping  o'er  the  fields 

Of  other  mortals'  dreams,  to  strive  to  find 

What  lies  within  their  pregnant  mystery. 

But  all  my  piping  never  lures  them  forth, 

And  all  I  see  behind  the  shifting  scenes, 

Is  a  phantasmagoria  of  hues 

And  sounds  of  deeds  and  thoughts,  yet  unexpressed, 

And  vast  events  that  quicken,  yet  unborn. 


35 


CASTLE  DREAM 

I  WANDERED  dream-hung  hallways,  listening 
To  the  faint  echoes  of  the  heart-harps'  strings; 
I  found  the  secret  chamber,  where  within 
The  Muse  of  Poetry  to  Genius  sings. 

From  breathless  hall  to  breathless  hall  I  roamed, 
Until  came  sneaking  in  the  furtive  dawn, 
And  the  vast  vapor  castle  of  my  dreams 
Melted  before  the  golden  smiling  Morn. 


THE  MOON   GIRL 

LOW  in  the  east,  old  Neptune's  breath 
Spreads  low  in  wispy  white-fog  bars, 
And  through  I  watch,  with  rapt,  fixed  eyes, 
The  naked  Moon  Girl,  shameless  sweet, 
Climbing  her  dew-drop  ladder  stars 
To  her  night-hung  throne  in  the  skies — 
Up  to  her  throne  to  modest  film 
Her  charms  in  her  sky-flung  star-dust  veil. 
Her  sweet,  soul-bathing  smile,  serene 
Falls  like  a  cool  hand  on  my  brow. 
Around  her,  courtier  planets  lie, 
And  past  her,  jester  meteors  fly, 
Leaving  a  twinkling  merry  trail ; 
Modest  'fore  all  th'  admiring  sky, 
She  reigns — Night's  undisputed  Queen. 


37 


MIST  O'   DREAMS 

SHE  dreams  and  all  her  dreams  float  in  her  eyes, 
So  dusky  gray  themselves  are  floating  dreams, 
Mist-gray,  yet  deep  within,  a  tale  of  blue — 
Spring  sky  that  azure-smiles  through  ragged  fog, 
Or  blue  like  water's  veiled  opal  gleam, 
'Neath  the  mist  maidens'  trailing  silken  scarfs. 
Oft,  through  her  eyes,  I  watch  her  errant  soul 
Walking  the  still,  dumb  corridors  of  Thought, 
With  priestess  step  and  strange  elusive  smile, 
Pursing  the  curved  and  moulded  coral  wealth, 
As  dreamy  as  the  dream  that  conjured  it. 
Ah,  then  I  long  to  grasp  her  wandering  thought! 
What  vision  made  her  smile — Love's  first  sweet  kiss? 


HARPALYCE 

SHE  left  her  father's  marble  halls, 
When  he  gave  up  his  soul  to  Death; 
She  hearkened  to  the  dryad  calls, 
That  whispered  in  the  forest's  breath. 

Now  on  the  Xanthus'  river  steeds 
She  flees,  a  foam  wreath,  by  the  dells, 
Or,  when  her  spirit  surcease  needs, 
She  woos  her  couch  of  asphodels. 

All  mortal  maidens  bloom  and  die, 
Jove  gave  her  immortality. 
Pure  as  the  mountain  breezes'  sigh 
Her  bare  limbs  breathe  virginity. 

High  on  Parnassus'  dawn-loved  peak, 
Or  cradled  in  cool  Delphic  arms, 
She  hides  away;  and,  though  they  seek, 
No  mortals  ever  glimpse  her  charms. 


39 


THE  WOOD  CHILD 

SHE  needs  no  playmate;  laughing  sweet, 
She  scatters  songs  upon  the  breeze, 
And,  holding  to  brown  bunnies'  ears, 
She  chases  leaves  around  the  trees. 

Nor  does  she  shame  to  show  the  woods 
Her  lily-slender,  white  child-limbs; 
The  lotus  envies  her  bright  form, 
When  in  the  mirror  stream  she  swims. 

But  sometimes,  when  on  lily  pads, 
She  woos  the  ripples'  soft  caress, 
Her  blue  eyes  fill,  and  through  her  steal 
Vague,  troubled  pangs  of  loneliness. 


40 


THE  WITCH 

BECAUSE  her  dark  eyes  loved  the  shades, 
That  rimmed  the  gold  of  every  dell, 
When  listening  to  talking  trees, 
They  said  that  she  communed  with  Hell. 

Because,  with  no  interpreter, 
Her  soul  was  face  to  face  with  God, 
They  said  she  heard  the  Devil's  words, 
When  walking  flowered  ways,  untrod. 

And  when,  poor  fools,  they  seared  her  form, 
And  freed  her  soul  with  burning  fire, 
One,  trembling,  saw  her  spirit  go, 
On  slender  smoke  wreaths  rising  higher. 


THE  BUGLE  NOTE 

THE  leader  of  the  scouting  party  frowned, 
And  peered  with  furrowed  brows  around  him.  Lost 
They  were,  for  now  for  many  weary  miles, 
They  had  been  wandering  through  wooded  hills, 
Unknown  to  them.  Now  they  had  come  upon 
A  narrow  sunny  dell.  Huge  stately  trees 
Grew  from  its  grassy  floor,  and  spread  their  limbs 
To  shade  a  tiny  brook,  that  flowed  along 
And  laved  their  roots  with  dreamy  murmuring. 
The  leader  spoke:  "To  find  our  lost  command 
Is  our  first  care.  Perhaps  a  bugle  call 
Will  bring  them  to  us,  and  we  can  but  try." 
He  raised  the  bugle  to  his  lips  and  blew. 
The  loud,  clear  notes  rang  on  the  sunny  air, 
And  in  the  noonday  stillness,  carried  far. 
A  wandering  Echo,  loitering  through  the  dell, 
Caught  up  the  call,  and  slow  repeated  it, 
Over  and  over,  'till  it  fainter  grew, 
And  died  away  in  falling  cadences. 
Scarce  had  it  died,  when  faint  and  far  away, 
Thin  as  an  elfin  trumpet,  through  the  trees, 
An  answer  came,  and  then  faint  shouts  of  men, 
And  signal  shots.  "  'Tis  they,"  the  leader  cried. 
Then  through  the  wood  they  saw  the  marching  forms 
Of  their  command,  and  closing  up  their  ranks, 
Went  forth  to  meet  them  in  the  sunny  glade. 

42 


KNIGHT  ERRANT 

"Gaily  bedight,  a  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow." 

Poe. 

IN  glittering  mail  of  imagery, 

My  errant  fancy  rides  away, 

A  gallant  knight  with  waving  plume, 

To  ride  the  dream-roads  night  and  day. 

He  rescues  naked  maiden  dreams 
From  lustful  giants'  castle  lairs, 
Or  rides  the  dark,  soul-chilling  ways 
To  slay  the  monstrous  black  nightmares. 

My  fancy  is  a  gallant  knight, 

He  bears  the  blade  of  chivalry, 

And  flushed  with  joy  of  deeds  well  done, 

Comes  gaily  riding  home  to  me. 


43 


YOUR  HAIR 

DlD  some  Love  Fairy  of  forgotten  rime 
Break  with  her  spell  the  pond'rous  lock  of  Time, 
And  down  year-haunted  hallways  silent  creep 
To  Ophir's  vaults,  where  all  the  misers  sleep, 
Where  gold  lies  careless  piled  like  yellow  chaff, 
And  seizing  a  bright  armful  with  a  laugh, 
Run  back  to  Now  from  Then's  grave-chilly  gloom, 
Fly  swift  up  to  a  high  wind-haunted  room, 
Sit  by  her  spinning  wheel  in  high-backed  chair, 
And  weave  that  Midas  Dream,  your  wondrous  hair? 
Long  dreamy  waves,  like  aureate  water-whirls, 
And  burning  like  Aurora's  wantoned  curls, 
That  flash  athwart  the  eastern  sky  at  dawn, 
Blazing  the  day's  renascence,  every  morn! 
Dim  in  the  fay's  heart,  Beauty's  lyre  rang, 
And,  as  she  worked  her  wheel,  she  pensive  sang 
Of  smiling  maiden  charms,  where  she  would  place 
This  wondrous  hair  to  crown  a  lovely  face. 


44 


CHANT  D'  AMOUR 

TO  moon-strung  lyres  of  the  mountain  wind, 
The  warp  and  woof  of  Love's  sweet  minstrelsy 
In  introspective  mood  I  dreamy  wove. 
Often  to  higher  heights  I  climb  to  find, 
Above  the  circumscribed  ken  of  man 
A  realm  removed  where  I  might  sing  of  Love 
Nor  risk  the  rough  jeers  of  the  lower  herd. 
High  up  my  heart-flute  carols  like  a  bird — 
The  laurel-folded  nightingale  who  dreams, 
And  sings  into  the  moon's  leaf-laced  beams. 
O,  Pan !  Strange  elf -god  of  the  untrod  ways ! 
Vainly  I  seek  through  rain-veiled  April  days, 
Through  Spring's  bright  gossamer  of  sun-shot  haze, 
When  flirting  eerie  down  the  valleys  wild 
Your  magic  piping  comes,  thin — high  above 
The  woodland's  murmurs.  You  alone  can  tell 
The  rapturous  freedom  of  wild  pagan  love, 
With  bloodless,  cold  restrictions  all  removed; 
Tell  me,  O,  Elf -God!  I  have  never  loved! 


SPRING  FANTASY 

HAREBELL,  of  the  untrod  dell— 

Heaven's  own  vintage  in  a  cup, 

Blue-eyed,  smiling,  you  look  up, 

To  catch  the  warm  and  quiv'ring  bliss 

Of  the  cavalier  sunbeams'  golden  kiss — 

Kiss  with  a  hungry,  eager  sip 

Of  the  wine  upon  your  azure  lip. 

Drunk  with  the  draught,  they  dance  the  breeze, 

Spattering  gold  beneath  the  trees; 

Ringing  their  round  in  the  ancient  grove, 

They  tell  the  breezes  of  their  love; 

But  the  breezes  flout  their  least  caress, 

And  their  feet  the  daisies  bend  and  press, 

As  they  rush  o'er  the  fields,  o'er  the  sea's  blue  waves, 

To  their  father's  chill  and  gusty  caves, 

To  hide  flushed  faces  in  his  beard. 

Laughter  gales  rise — he  has  heard 

Of  the  sunbeams'  love.  "They  will  not  grieve. 

Their  love  but  lasts  from  dawn  to  eve. 

Hearts  cool  at  eve  as  at  dawn  they  swell. 

They  were  mad  with  the  wine  of  the  fair  harebell." 

Swaying  with  laughter  in  the  dell. 


PAN'S  VICTORY 

OLD  Pan  came  early  out  one  year; 

Keen,  mean  the  frost  imps  nipped  his  ear, 

Shrilling:  "What  now,  mad  minstrel  clown*? 

The  snow  still  covers  dale  and  down!" 

And  old  Pan  wandered  on  forlorn, 

But  his  eyes  hoped,  like  the  east  ere  dawn, 

Piping  a  wind-shrill  minor  tune, 

To  woo  the  absent  maiden,  June, 

Till  under  his  blankets  yawned  the  sun, 

The  frightened  snow  away  did  run, 

The  blackbird  piped  up  clear  and  strong, 

A  glad  heart-thrilling  mating  song; 

And  the  violets  bloomed  with  never  a  fear, 

For  Spring  came  early,  too,  that  year. 


47 


PAN'S   PIPE 

HE  wandered  through  the  wilding  world,  sun-splashed 

With  spattered  gold  and  broidered  with  bright  bloom, 

Striving  to  give  expression  to  a  song 

Of  nature's  own  wild  harmony;  he  smiled 

An  elfish  smile,  half  mischief,  half  love-dreamed; 

He  plucked  the  dream- tuned  lute  strings  from  the  heart 

Of  Poetry,  he  willed  the  wild  dumb  voice 

Of  dew-splashed  fragrant  forest  to  his  work; 

Stole  from  the  merriment  of  frisking  lambs, 

The  verdant  grace  of  breeze-bent  reeds;  and  last 

Fashioned  the  whole  with  curve  of  maidens'  limbs, 

Elf-smiled  on  the  fulfilment  of  his  dream, 

With  far-off  mind  breathed  into  it  his  soul — 

Keen  as  a  dagger's  thrust,  yet  numbing  sweet 

The  sound  wild  fluted — from  the  heart  of  Spring. 


PIPES  O'   PAN 

THE  lilting  echoes  of  Pan's  silver  pipes 

Adown  the  budding  woodland  dells  comes  drifting, 

Like  petals  sifting 

Through  the  green  tendrils  of  a  flowering  vine, 

That  twine  on  twine, 

Circles  the  slender  birches  in  the  glade, 

Like  some  fair  maid, 

Half  gowned  in  trailing  filaments  of  green, 

Through  which  is  seen 

The  glory  of  her  round  breasts'  snowy  splendor, 

And  white  limbs  slender. 

Out  of  Spring's  warm,  sweet  heart  Pan's  music  swells 

Like  water  bells, 

Rung  by  the  Naiads  in  the  waterfall, 

The  brooklet  call 

To  drowsy  blood,  made  slow  and  dull  as  death, 

By  Winter's  breath, 

To  wake  the  drowsy  pulse  to  joyous  thrill. 

The  laughing  rill 

Runs  not  so  joyous  as  my  wakened  blood — 

Ah,  life  is  good ! 

To  breathe  the  new-born  breeze, 

That,  sweeping  through  the  trees, 

Steals  their  perfume  and  gives  it  all  to  me, 

So  all  my  senses  thrill.  Now  all  my  heart 

49 


Dances  apart, 

To  the  wild  music  of  immortal  Pan — 

No  longer  man, 

But  airy  sprite  am  I, 

Child  of  the  wide  earth,  and  cloud-castled  sky ! 


MAY 

THE  Pan-thrilled  saplings  swayed  in  sportive  bliss, 
Longing  to  change  their  roots  to  flying  feet, 
And,  where  the  buds  were  pouting  for  Pan's  kiss, 
The  high  lark  sprinkled  music,  dewy  sweet. 

I  wandered  down  a  golden  lane  of  light, 
And  found  a  dell,  unsoiled  by  man,  untrod, 
And,  with  the  daffodil  for  acolyte, 
I  bared  my  soul  to  all  the  woods,  and  God. 


UNTROD 

I  FOUND  a  fold  of  Nature's  robe, 
Where  violets  never  dreamed  of  man, 
And  Bacchanalian  buttercups, 
With  cups  upheld,  cried:  "Health  to  Pan!" 

And  where  the  wealthy  miller-bee 
Hummed  miserly  in  dusty  gold, 
Gorging  himself  with  stolen  sweets 
The  ivory  trumpet  lilies  hold. 

And  there  I  laid  me  down  to  sleep, 
Folded  on  Nature's  mother  breast, 
And  through  the  mazy  ways  of  dreams, 
I  wandered  to  the  realms  of  Rest. 


SPRING  DRESSES 

THE  bashful  Spring  girl-shy  begins 
To  show  her  art;  a  green  web  spins 
To  clothe  the  shivering  tracery 
Of  every  patient,  pleading  tree. 

And  on  her  wild  bird-singing  loom 
She  'broiders  bright  the  veil  with  bloom, 
And  girlish-proud,  the  happy  trees 
Flaunt  their  new  dresses  to  the  breeze. 


53 


DRYAD  TREES 

THEY  have  their  little  vanities, 
The  slender,  girlish-supple  trees; 
They  love  to  watch  their  mirrored  forms 
In  pools,  unruffled  by  the  breeze. 

They  watch  their  shadow  tracery 
Sun-cast  in  silent  woodland  glades, 
And  murmuring  as  they  sleepy  sway, 
They  drift  to  dreams  of  lights  and  shades. 

For  all  of  them  are  Dryad  souls, 
That  lay  earth-bound  a  little  time, 
Then  upward  rose:  tall  maiden  trees, 
To  woo  the  errant  breeze  with  rhyme. 


54 


THE  QUESTING  BEE 

MY  soul  goes  questing  like  the  honey-bee, 
In  untrod  gardens,  where  Love  walked  of  old, 
And,  humming  on  sweet  errands,  slyly  learns 
The  secrets  the  Madonna  lilies  hold; 

Where  the  Sun  Dial  Miser  jealous  counts 
His  glowing  tale  of  golden-slipping  hours, 
That  all  escape,  despite  his  watchful  care, 
To  paint  the  sun-dreams  in  the  hearts  of  flowers. 

And  no  one  thinks  the  honey-bees  have  souls, 
That  drink  the  love  vow  from  the  blushing  rose, 
But,  by  the  fountain's  silver  poetry, 
The  marble  Faun  stone-smiles;  he  better  knows. 


THE  DROWNED  GRASS  WORLD 

AROUND  me  stretched  the  drowned  grass  world,  and 

sighed 

At  its  own  desolation.  Eerie  cried 
The  bittern  homing  grayly  through  the  mist, 
That  eastward  lay — a  nebulous  amethyst, 
But  in  the  west  the  sun  a  broad  red  smile 
Beamed  on  his  world  he  left  for  little  while; 
A  smile  of  ownership;  its  crimson  glow 
Stretched  seaward,  fading.  Deeper  red  and  low 
In  purple  bank  of  mist  he  sank  away, 
And  with  a  chilling  rush  the  world  was  gray — 
Gray  grass,  gray  water,  creeping  gray  mist  veil 
And  in  the  gray  it  seemed  my  soul  would  fail. 
I  raised  my  voice  in  wild  impassioned  cry: 
"The  why  of  this;  the  why  of  Life — why!  why!" 
An  eerie  answer  thrilled  the  mist-drowned  plain — 
The  crane's  wild  scream,  like  far-off  cry  of  pain — 
Then  silence  claimed  the  shrouded  world  again. 


THE  DYING  SEASONS 

THE  buttercups  held  up  their  gold  to  me, 
The  lily,  with  her  maiden-slender  charms, 
Filled  all  my  soul  to  surfeit  with  perfume, 
When  Spring  sank  swooning  into  Summer's  arms. 

I  drank  the  languid  Lethe  of  July 
The  honeysuckle  poured  upon  the  breeze, 
Then  dreamily  watched  Midas-Autumn  change, 
With  magic  touch,  to  gold  the  waiting  trees. 

Cold  shrank  my  soul  before  the  frost's  chill  breath, 
I  heard  the  North  Wind's  trumpets,  icy-loud; 
And  now  I  sleep — 'till  Pan  shall  silver  pipe — 
Deep  folded  in  the  Snow  Queen's  numbing  shroud. 


57 


SPUME 

GlVE  me  a  foam- wreath  for  my  brow, 
And  let  me  be  a  merman  bold, 
Hurled  afar  on  the  careless  spray, 
Blown  on  old  Neptune's  breath  away, 
To  the  isles  of  palm  and  gold. 

And,  on  the  rolling  dolphin's  back, 
Let  me  over  the  breakers  ride, 
O'er  the  waving  daisy-fields  of  foam, 
Let  me  live,  let  me  sing,  and  forever  roam, 
And  laugh  with  a  Sea  God's  pride. 


SEA  FOAM 

A  FANTASY 

I  DIPPED  my  face  into  the  beryl  sea, 

And  through  the  surf  bells,  ringing  without  cease, 

I  heard  a  mermaid  sing  from  some  sea  cave : 

"Down,  down,  come  down,  for  here  below  is  peace. 

I  will  give  you  all  my  maiden  charms 

I  will  shower  you  with  rose  pink  shells 

I  will  gladly  lie  within  your  arms, 

On  bridal  sand,  lulled  by  the  swells." 

"But,  alas,  mermaid,  I  cannot  come  below, 

For  down  beneath  the  sea  I  cannot  live." 

And  she  replied:  "Down  here  is  endless  peace. 

Drown,  drown,  come  drown !  Why  stay  above  and  strive  ? 

Down  here  the  weary  mortals  rest, 

Down  deep  the  cool  sea  currents  lave; 

You  shall  sleeping  kiss  my  rounded  breast, 

On  a  coral  couch,  where  sea  fans  wave ; 

You  shall  hold  my  white  limbs,  soft  caressed, 

In  the  opal  gloom  of  a  coral  cave; 

My  lips  on  yours  shall  be  warm  pressed, 

As  you  die — for  aye ! — in  your  coral  grave !" 


59 


ON   A  VIEW   FROM   MY   SISTER'S 
COTTAGE 

KNEE-DEEP,  the  marsh  grass  bravely  stands 
And  flaunts  its  spears  of  vivid  green 
Against  the  tide's  majestic  sweep, 
Swinging  ashore  its  silver  sheen. 

Between  the  blue  of  sky  and  tide 
Ghost-gray  the  circling  sea-gulls  fly, 
And  the  wild  sea's  own  loneliness 
Thrills  through  me  on  their  eerie  cry. 

And,  when  calm  evening  veils  the  day, 
The  tall  pines'  censer  swings  afar 
And  bears  me  on  its  wondrous  sweep 
Up  to  a  dream  in  some  bright  star. 


Co 


THE  CORNISH  SEA 

COME,  we  will  go,  to  Land's  End  bound, 
Past  lurking  cove  and  breathing  sound, 
And,  o'er  the  lark-thrilled,  dewy  lea, 
The  opal  of  the  Cornish  Sea. 

There  Neptune  thrones  in  royal  might, 
Watching  his  white-maned  lions  fight 
And  'neath  his  frowning  gaze,  far  seen, 
The  rainbow  realm  of  his  demesne. 

As  changeful  as  a  poet's  heart, 

As  guileful  as  the  coquette's  art — 

It  stole  my  soul  from  me  away, 

And  there  'tis  dream-chained,  night  and  day. 


EVENING 

FUNEREAL  chilled  the  air.  Along  the  beach, 
The  dying  day  trailed  purple  scarfs  of  mist, 
And  high  above  the  wind's  long  fingers'  reach, 
The  evening  sky  was  hollow  amethyst. 

Each  plumed  palm  its  fronded  head  sad  waved, 
Amid  the  sombre  dusk's  gray  mourning  pall, 
Above  where  Day  lay  cold  and  shadowy  graved, 
And  one  pink  cloud  its  silver  tears  let  fall. 

Only  the  sun  warm  smiled.  No  cause  for  tears 
He  found,  though  all  the  breakers  sobbed  forlorn; 
His  cheerful  face  strove  to  allay  their  fears — 
For  after  death  is  not  the  day  re-born"? 


62 


WILDNESS 

MY  soul-harp  never  thrills  to  peaceful  tunes; 
In  Nature's  wildness  my  heart  finds  its  home, 
When  sporting,  playmate  to  the  wind  and  waves, 
O'er  the  wild  Orkney's  battlefield  of  foam, — 

My  steed  a  white-maned  tempest,  wild  and  gray, 
Whose  hoofs  strike  fire  from  each  frightened  wave, 
While  the  loud  thunder  strides  the  crumbling  crags, 
And  shakes  his  sabre  when  the  breakers  rave. 

Why  walk,  monk-like,  in  cloistered  aisles  of  peace, 
When,  whispering  on  every  errant  breeze, 
Fanning  the  latent  fire  of  my  blood, 
Comes  the  far  bugle  summons  of  the  seas? 


SNOW-BLUSH 

I  SANG  of  Love  upon  a  virgin  peak 

Where  the  Madonna  snows  in  holy  peace 

Breathed  the  pure  incense  of  the  edelweiss; 

Yet  as  I  sang  amid  the  awful  hush, 

The  'passioned  Sun  God  strode  across  the  East, 

And  o'er  the  whiteness  of  the  snow's  pale  cheek,- 

Halting  my  song  with  wonder — stole  a  blush ! 


LLEWELLYN 

LlKE  the  weird  echo  of  a  hunting  horn, 
His  name  still  lingers  in  his  native  hills, 
The  wild  winds  chant  it  to  the  mountain  ash — 
It  glides  along  the  murmurs  of  the  rills. 

The  high  cold  pride  of  Snowdoun  marked  his  face. 
He  fought — aye,  died,  but  gained  a  deathless  fame, 
For  still  the  harp-winds  and  the  poet-rills 
Chant  to  the  hills  he  loved  his  echo-name ! 


THE  SILENT  RANGES 

GlVE  me  the  hills,  that  echo  silence  back, 

Save  the  harp-haunted  pines'  wild  minstrelsy, 

And  white  peaks,  lifting  rapt  Madonna  gaze 

To  where  God's  cloud-sheep  roam  the  azure  lea. 

Give  me  the  Lethe  of  the  harebell's  wine, 
And  in  the  fleece  of  silence  folded  deep, 

Let  half-heard  echoes  of  an  Oread's  song 
Breathe  on  the  drowsy  lyre  of  my  sleep. 


66 


TWILIGHT 

"The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 
In  the  red  west." 

Tennyson. 

THE  colors  linger  in  the  west, 
All  loath  to  leave,  but  one  by  one 
The  gentle  twilight  kisses  them, 
And  grayly  veils  them  with  the  sun. 

Then  softly  reaching  up  she  lights 
Her  tapered  altar  zenith-high, 
Then,  on  the  dimly  gleaming  peak, 
She  waits  the  moon  to  claim  the  sky. 


EVENING   DREAMS 

THE  West  has  dreamed,  a  Midas  Dream, 
That  all  he  touches  turns  to  gold, — 
But  wakes  to  find  his  riches  gone, 
Among  gray  cloud  peaks,  frowning  cold. 

The  East  has  dreamed,  a  dream  less  rich, 
Of  floating  on  a  silver  sea, 
But,  moon-kissed,  wakes  in  bright  delight, 
To  find  her  dream  reality. 


68 


FORGET-ME-NOT 

AT  sunset  wept  a  little  bloom 
That  Pan  forgot  to  kiss; 
It  murmured  all  the  night  its  plaint, 
To  be  denied  such  bliss. 

Its  tiny  face  was  wet  with  tears, 
When  rosy  came  the  day; 
A  sunbeam  smiled;  embraced  it  then, 
And  kissed  the  tears  away. 


KNOWLEDGE  LOST, 
IGNORANCE  REGAINED 

(Without  any  apology  to  Milton) 

'\VHICH  way  I  turn  is  nut — myself  am  nix." 
So  spake  the  Arch  Lunatic;  at  his  words, 
The  other  Devils  tapped  their  echoing  domes, 
As  though  they  asked:  "Is  any  one  at  home4?" 
Then  in  a  heated  blast  they  all  made  noise: 
"Knowledge  is  ignorance,  for  now  we  know 
That  we  know  nothing;  whereas  we  before 
Thought  that  the  pains  that  throbbed  within  our  lofts 
Came  from  too  great  a  weight  upon  their  beams, 
But  now  we  realize  that  it  was  but 
The  high  air  pressure  outside  on  our  domes 
Caused  by  the  vacuum  within."  They- raised  a  yell: 
"Ign'rance  is  bliss;  and  bliss  is  happiness! 
So  we  are  happy  as  we  are  now  free ; 
We  cannot  worry  as  we  cannot  know — 
Better  to  joy  in  happy  ignorance, 
Than  worry  o'er  the  things  we  think  we  know !" 


70 


BEAUTY 

SO  many  girls  have  depthless  eyes, 
So  many  slender  lily  limbs, 
And  wondrous  wild- rose  body  grace, 
To  which  one's  mind  in  beauty  swims. 

But,  Oh  how  few,  alas,  can  run 
In  Beauty's  music-flowing  race; 
So  many  girls  are  body  sweet, 
But  crown  all  with  an  ugly  face ! 


LIFE 

I  WOULD  love  to  shake  from  my  feet  the  dust 

Of  hated  civilized  life 

And  go  to  the  roaring  torrid  zone — 

The  land  of  eternal  strife, 

Of  blazing  colors  and  blinding  rains, 

Where  one  must  fight  to  live, 

Where  Joy  walks  hand  in  hand  with  Death, 

And  only  the  strong  survive. 

There  would  I  live  as  the  cave  man  lived, 

And  play  and  fight  and  strive 

And  leap  and  run  through  the  tangled  trees 

By  Strength,  only,  kept  alive; 

And  all  through  the  blazing  tropic  day 

To  live  wild,  exultingly  free, 

And  sleep  at  night  in  the  moon's  white  beams, 

In  the  top  of  a  giant  tree. 


THE  RECRUIT   POET 

6 'CHOW  detail!"— in  the  ordered  rush, 
No  gentleman  would  ever  shirk; 
How  can  I  hear  Pan's  silver  pipes, 
Amid  the  grinding  wheels  of  work4? 

But  gentle  Night  sets  free  my  soul, 
For  the  brief  moment  ere  I  sleep ; 
Rejoicing  in  its  liberty 
It  walks  dream  valleys,  folded  deep. 

It  gathers  golden  threads  of  verse 
And  falls  asleep  amid  bright  skeins, 
And,  furtively,  Reality 
Binds  it  again  in  Routine  chains. 


73 


PAN   DEAD? 

\VHERE  are  the  elfin,  minor  strains  of  Pan 

That  down  the  moonbeams  to  my  sleep  would  glide, 

To  sport  among  the  harp  strings  of  my  dreams 

And  wake  the  sleeping  harmony  to  smile? 

War  sounds  his  brazen  trumpet  o'er  the  world, 

Shattering  the  inner  ear  with  loud  discord, 

Scorching  the  Muse's  acolytes  with  flame, 

And  with'ring  Beauty  with  a  Kaiser's  laugh. 

Yet,  is  Pan  dead?  Sometimes  above  the  din 

Of  brutal,  bloody  strife,  dim,  heart-heard  notes 

Call  to  my  soul  like  ghosts  of  yearning  sounds — 

I  will  find  Pan!  My  Inner  Self  will  go 

To  green-  and  gold-shot  glades,  deep  drowned  in  peace, 

To  look  and  listen,  follow  inner  sounds, 

Elusive  as  the  asking  eyes  of  Love. 

Through  whisp'ring  colonnades  that  will  not  tell, 

Though  well  they  know, — and  whisper,  on  and  on, 

With  flushed  face  kissed  by  perfumed  Dryad  breaths; 

On  with  delightful  hopes  unrealized, 

And  yet  always  to  be,   ...  and  elfin-far, 

Pan's  fairy  flute  notes  ever  just  ahead. 


74 


SKAGERACK 

(The  waves  on  the  British  shore) 

I  HEARD  the  breakers  moaning  for  the  dead, 

Those  bold  descendants  of  the  Island  strain 

Who  died  to  prove  a  lie  the  Sea-Hun's  boast; 

But  mingled  with  the  monothrob  of  woe, 

I  caught  the  swelling  of  a  deeper  note, 

And  seemed  to  hear,  brave  as  a  smile  through  tears, 

"Yet,  all  is  safe,  Britannia  rules  the  sea!" 


75 


A  SONG  OF  AMERICAN   INDUSTRY 

WHO  am  I,  rising  gigantic  now — 

From  the  fighting  man  to  the  man  at  the  plow? 

My  voice  is  heard  through  the  ring  of  the  strife 

To  aid  Democracy's  fight  for  life; 

And  I  chant  mid  my  labors,  day  by  day: 

"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday!" 

What  of  the  marvelous  works  of  steel? — 
Wild  music  to  one,  if  he  can  but  feel, 
Is  the  wondrous  machinery's  roar  and  flame; 
He  sees  the  one  thought  and  he  catches  its  name, 
Ringing  clear,  loud  through  the  clanging  fray: 
"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday!" 

What  of  the  gunworks'  flame-shot  gloom? 
Where  dim  in  the  throbbing,  heated  room, 
The  cannon  are  born  to  hurl  their  shell 
Into  the  teeth  of  the  Hosts  of  Hell, 
And  roar  from  their  iron  throats  the  lay, 
"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday!" 


What  of  the  shipyard's  loud  turmoil? 
Where  the  sweating  workmen  unceasing  toil 
To  send  an  argosy  over  the  sea, 
Carrying  food  to  the  fighting  free, 
To  laugh  at  the  U-boat  dastards  and  say: 
"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday!" 

Men  die  that  the  whole  world  may  be  free, 
But  one  and  all,  they  depend  on  me; 
Their  flashing  swords  and  shrieking  shell 
Are  born  of  me — mad  Huns  to  quell ; 
The  breath  of  victory  swells  my  lay: 
"Excel  your  labors  of  yesterday!" 


77 


THE  RED  CROSS  NURSE 

SHE  comes,  between  the  rows  of  pallid  beds, 
As  the  dew  maiden  comes  to  wistful  flowers, 
And  smiling  benediction,  drop  by  drop, 
She  cools  the  dry  heat  of  the  aching  hours. 

Sometimes  she  reads;  sometimes  her  laughter  rings 
In  many  a  jest  to  smooth  out  lines  of  pain, 
Or  silently  her  soft  eyes  understand, 
Like  a  June  heaven  misted  o'er  with  rain. 


DEJECTION 

ONE  time,  my  lips  could  always  shape  a  song 
On  golden  loom  of  Verse,  weave  Beauty's  praise, 
The  while  my  Life's  craft  loitered  slow  along 
The  singing  current  of  unshadowed  days. 

But  now  I  weary  grow  of  goalless  strife; 
No  more  within  my  heart  a  Love  Bird  sings, 
And  when  my  hand  strays  o'er  the  Harp  of  Life, 
It  makes  but  discords  on  the  sounding  strings. 


79 


REQUIESCAT 

'And  I  must  rest,  yet  do  not  say:  'She  died,' 
In  speaking  of  my  lying  here  alone." 

Riley. 

I  DRIFT  and  dream  on  opiate  stream, 
With  dream  fog  ever  overhung, 
And,  lily-lulled,  I  faintly  hear 
An  endless  love  song,  ever  sung. 
The  flowers  nod  above  my  head 
But  do  not  say  that  I  am  dead. 
I  lie  in  peace  so  sweet  and  deep, 
It  can  be  naught  but  blessed  sleep. 


80 


HIGHER  DAWN 

I  WALKED  the  nomad  road  that,  ribbon-thrown, 
Climbed  restless  on  in  search  of  higher  dawns; 
I  gathered  dandelion  treasures,  strown 
Bright,  newly  coined,  on  the  lazy  lawns. 

Up,  up  I  went,  until  I  felt  God's  breath 
Blow  from  my  soul  all  earthly  dust  away; 
I  longed  to  spread  Icarian  wings  of  Death 
And  fly  beyond  the  glorious  gates  of  day. 


8l 


THE  VOICE 

LlKE  a  cool  vapor  falling 
The  voice  of  death  is  calling: 
"In  my  dim  land  is  Peace. 
By  the  Lethe-languid  fountains, 
In  my  mist-shrouded  mountains 
All  cares  and  clamors  cease." 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


